


Mélancolie

by Bloodiest_God



Series: Recovery and Moths [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Brothers, Dadza, Family, Gen, I deal with pain through SBI, Light Angst, Nightmares, No shipping, Phil is trying, Platonic Relationships, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Tommy wants to sleep, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 07:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28467372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodiest_God/pseuds/Bloodiest_God
Summary: (title from Patrick Watson - Mélancolie)(My take on things)Tommy has spent a month with his family, far away from the ruins that mark the beginning and end of his suffering. Though that's not quite true.There's a long road of recovery.
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Recovery and Moths [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085192
Comments: 2
Kudos: 306





	Mélancolie

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: !!! there is a mention of blood and violence!!! Proceed at your own risk please!!!
> 
> SBI family dynamics will never fail to be a comfort place for me.
> 
> Happy new year!
> 
> \- Wilbur is not dead  
> \- some details are left ambiguous  
> \- I don't know if anymore triggers are needed, if there are I encourage you to comment so I can put them in place.

It'd been a month.

An entire month, tucked safely away in the spruce cabin. Frozen fields and mountains acting like familiar landmarks. There were no nether portals near by, and Tommy was quite relieved. He didn't think he could stand the sight of the ugly purplish blocks, the mist-like swirling gateway a bad reminder of the bridge.

It wasn't often he liked to talk- let alone think about the bridge, especially on those particularly bad days. Better to repress the bad parts, he'd tell himself (over and over and over again, until Phil had to scoop up the shaking boy.)

Maybe it was better if he'd stepped off, the voices supplied unhelpfully on the days he let his mental walls crumble. Even one small crack, a second were he gets too comfortable- it's enough for the trapped animal inside of his head to start howling. On those days, he'd claw at his ears with a feverish intent to stop those _sounds_ rattling around inside his skull. When Tommy had slipped up in front of Techno, the very blood god himself, he had never felt more ashamed. Of what exactly he couldn't pin point. Everyone had made a point of telling him that he wasn't broken.

His brother had sat down in the snow in front of him, but not too close. Tommy was grateful. Distance meant less chances of being hurt. 

"Y'know Tommy," the half-piglin spoke, "you've been through a lot.. a-and I just want you to know that it's okay." That familiar monotone voice was oddly comforting, even if he could tell his older brother was unused to showing empathy. Tommy knows that it's far from the truth, but he's grateful for the small reminder that yes, _he's allowed to be not okay._

"Tech-" he returns hesitantly. The half-piglin makes no move to leave so he assumes it's okay to talk. "The voices," his voice cracks, a moment of harsh weakness that has his throat closing up. He doesn't want to cry. His feet are numb and he feels so _so_ small.

"What about them, Toms?" 

Tommy wants to get it off of his chest, he really does.

"They scream. They scream like a wounded animal. Some.. sometimes they tell me things. I don't want to listen to them Tech." Tommy's pretty sure he stumbles over his words, tongue feeling heavy and unmoving in his mouth. It would be easy to blame it on the cold but he knows- it feels as if he's talking about things he shouldn't.

His brother exhales loudly, the steam spreading into the atmosphere around them.

Techno shifts on the now probably melted snow beneath him, deep in thought. 

Tommy sits silently, eyes trained on a blade of grass poking cheerfully out of the blanket of white. Life prevailed in all circumstances, that much was obvious. He wants to reach out and touch the single grass blade, feel it's organic existence. There was something comforting in the moment. His older brother coughed lightly, waiting for Tommy to finish his _for once_ peaceful train of thought.

"Tommy." Techno tenderly whispers, and it's _oh so quiet._ For a moment, his big brother looks uncertain, vulnerable even. "This is a battle you'll have to win yourself," he murmurs, poking a hole into the snow surrounding him. "But Tommy," there's an underlying tone of promise and the usual confidence seeps back. "You won't be alone."

As if on queue, the door opens.

"Boys?" Phil calls, poking his head around the door. The brothers know he'd been allowing them space, but those fatherly instincts kick in. "Get inside and change please or you'll regret it later." There's a muffled laugh from further inside the cabin that sounds exactly like Wilbur, "Frostbite on their b-" is all they hear before Phil groans, closing the door.

Tommy stares at Techno, and Techno stares back at him.

"We were havin' a moment and then Wilbur ruins it." Tommy's brother grumbles, unfolding his long legs to stand up, grimacing at the spread of darkness on his trousers. He offers a hand to Tommy who takes it surprisingly, barely having any second thoughts. 

"Tech.. " Tommy begins in his _'i'm going to say something really funny'_ voice.

"Did you wet yourself?"

Without another word he turns towards the house, cackling loudly. From behind, techno smiles- _his little brother has a bit of pep in his step._

Wilbur doesn't know how to help. 

Sometimes he sees Tommy around the house at night, when everyone else was asleep, a former shadow of himself. 

It'd be easier if he could just carry the burden his youngest brother was carrying. Pick it up like a stone and take it far _far_ far away. Tommy was just a boy, a child who didn't need to live with the nightmares that plagued his sleep. Wilbur had no idea what caused Tommy to scream like he did, jolt awake feverish and incoherent. Listening from the other room, eyes open, Wilbur feels powerless. He knows as well, the muffled choked sobs not falling deaf on his ears that strain to make sure he's not _unsafe._

Tommy never cries, not when the arrow that lodged itself in his head had slowly and bitterly stolen the life from his eyes. If anything, much to the annoyance of Dream (and the unspoken joy of Wilbur) Tommy had slipped away with a determined smile on his face. There was so much blood, an impossible amount, but his baby brother had faced his defeat like the champion he was.

Tommy hadn't even cried when his home, his nation- the very country he fought tooth and nail to protect, erupted before his very eyes. 

Even as a baby, trailing behind his older brothers like a small gremlin, Tommy remained mostly cheerful, hardly crying at all the bumps and bruises he'd get trying to keep up with the older kids. Phil had called Tommy his little survivor after a particularly nasty fall down a pit in the earth. He'd needed at least ten stitches behind his ear, and Tommy had scrunched his face up with extreme concentration, instead of crying he chose to exclaim loud cuss words that Phil was unsurprised he knew (Wilbur, even at the age of fourteen had a potty mouth.)

Their little survivor. A passionate boy who often trod on people's toes deliberately. Loveable, even when he was being an annoying little shït.

Wilbur tries to comfort Tommy, he really does, but he finds its worse to slip into his brother's room while he's crying enough tears to fill a bathtub. He causes more harm than good.

Tommy reacts like a dying animal, crying harder and louder- trying to curl into his bed and disappear completely.

He doesn't want anyone around him in those moments.

Phil had softly told Techno and Wilbur to leave their youngest brother alone. The poor kid didn't need the humiliation of prying eyes watching him breakdown into incoherent babbling. It makes Wilbur burn with a rage that gets extinguished just as quickly as it flares, his main thoughts should be on being there for Tommy, and not revenge.

(Though on the nights it's as bad as it gets, Phil has to calm Tommy down. Nobody sleeps on those nights. The screams were probably worse than that of a battlefield filled with slaughter.)

_He lurches forwards, expelling the contents of his stomach as the boot collides with his stomach again._

_Anymore, and Tommy would be dry-heaving into the sand. There's not much more he can give. Tommy knows curling up and accepting the blows wouldn't make it any easier, it just meant Dream would try even harder to reach his more sensitive parts. His face and chest were a particular favourite place for Dream to inflict damage upon._

_The crack of the blunt side of the netherite axe was enough to have him trembling. Was the next hit going to be against his skull or his ribs? Honestly, Tommy wished with a morbidly high hope that one day Dream would hit too hard. Perhaps his skull would finally cave._

_It hurt. It hurt all the time._

_When his eyes finally close from exhaustion, he sees the man leaning down towards him, disappearing into the darkness everytime he blinks slowly. Long ago he'd stopped praying the monster would remain gone._

_"You make me do this." Dream whispers._

_Somewhere an animal howls, an admission of pain. Tommy wants it to end._

_There's blood pooling underneath him, sinking into the sand. It almost looks pretty. Dream nudges him with a brown boot. "It's not your time to die."_

_The forest explodes into an ugly symphony of pain. So much noise, so much suffering. It's never his time to die. Tommy peels his eyes open, choking on a sudden wave of blood. It's pouring out of his mouth, coating his tongue and teeth. Something rolls down his face and Tommy finds the strength to rub angrily at his face. At least it's not tears because his hand comes back covered in dark liquid._

_He wonders if it's staining his skin, because he knows it's staining his soul._

_"Tommy?"_

_He wants to cry, he really does._

_"Why are you giving up Tommy?"_

_Dream always laughed at him, watching him shuffle dejectedly back into his tent. He's no longer violent, but the cost is Tommy's body to be marked with bruises and ruptured capillaries running up and down his face and arms. Dream would tell him softly- tenderly that it didn't have to be that way._

_That's what probably scared him the most. The gloved hand that would run itself through his hair. The loaf of bread pressed into his thin boney hands._

_"I'm your only friend. I am your only friend Tommy."_

_Dream. His only friend Dream._

_The noises from the forest are louder- too loud. He can't think, can't breathe._

_It feels as if the animals are calling for him to join them._

_There are hands around his throat. They squeeze down, and Tommy doesn't know what to do except to struggle. He doesn't want to die to the monster without a face._

_Tommy doesn't want to die in his tent, thousands of miles away from salvation._

_He kicks, screams and claws, all while the pressure gradually increases. The voices call for him, but they are not comforting._

_Nails dig into the soft flesh of his throat and Tommy gargles when he can't get air into his lungs. Not like this._

_He flails like a fish out of water, aware of the approaching mist out of the corner of his eyes._

_"Please.." he breathes out, lungs oddly quiet for how long they'd been screaming at him._

_That stupid mask looms over his fading vision._

_Tommy realizes too late that the unholy animalistic choir was all in his head._

When Phil looks at his youngest son, he wants to go back in time, and start again.

Perhaps if he'd arrived earlier, he could've saved his Tommy from anything and everything that came to hurt him.

Dream was a formidable opponent, but nothing could compare to the anger of a parent protecting their child. Phil wasn't a fool, he'd seen the scars. They were a stark difference to the ones Technoblade wore. These weren't won in the throes of battle, these were inflicted by an unrelenting bastard. 

He'd heard the words Tommy had whined in his fitful sleep. _Monster._

Phil never considered himself a violent man by nature. Sure he was war savvy and hungry for exploration and achievements, but he'd never raise his sword to someone innocent and unable to fight back. He wasn't the greatest example to live by, (no matter how much he ignored it- Phil knew what both of his eldest sons had done) but he had strong morals.

To find his _sick dying son_ amongst the rubble of what he assumed had been his camp, covered in wounds and injuries that weren't entirely caused by TNT. Taking one look at the malnourished teenager had been enough to change his entire months plans. He was going to save his Tommy.

No matter how poor of a father he'd been before, he wasn't going to make the same mistakes.

On the thirtieth night, Tommy cried, but it wasn't from sadness.

_Home. He was home._

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave prompts, because I need to procrastinate before writing more for my other story.


End file.
